


Welcome to Our World

by ruethereal



Series: VIP Only [1]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a horrorshow they perform together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful Hangovers

It was a joke, a fantasy even. But it snowballed, the both of them adding to its preposterousness, its implausibility, its grandiosity. Until the joke, the fantasy grew so huge, so unreal that it somehow became a terrible, consuming reality.

Seducing women. Killing women. And keeping count all the while.

But it’s a horror show they perform together.

So through all the makeup and hair dye, all the close-calls with the cops and the customs offices, all the alcohol and drugs, all the shopping and traveling, somehow—just somehow—the joke truly became enjoyable.

Both their families had the money to spare. But neither of them was interested in going to college. So they wasted the first year after graduation wasting money and time in bars and clubs. And that’s where they realized they made the perfect team when it comes to attracting any and all cuts of women.

Choi Seunghyun. TOP. Masculine, intense, dominating.

Kwon Jiyong. G-Dragon. Petite, adorable, irresistible.

But they don’t do it for the sex. Because the first unspoken rule is it _never_ comes to sex. They’re secret actors, secret host boys fulfilling fantasies while in a fantasy of their own.

They’re not whores.

The women only think the money’s being spent on them. Only think the pickup lines and teasing touches will lead to the bedroom. When really, it’s all just a part of their show. And afterwards, when the last batch of bodies is just minutes forgotten, they share a private, cozy laugh. Share notes and details, exchange constructive criticism and lauding commentary.

It’s all a joke, a fantasy, yes. But they take themselves very seriously.

‘Which shoes do I wear tonight? They have to match my cravat, though.’

‘The snakeskin boots. With lifts. It’s black-tie, so they’ll be wearing heels.’

‘Right right right. What would I do without you?’

‘Dunno. Office work? Now help pick my rings.’

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt? But what if someone’s pain is a part of the game? Does that mean it’s pure, unadulterated fun?

‘You bet, baby.’


	2. Try Smiling

Saturday, 29 September 2007  
No.007 and No.008

The straight razor glints dangerously in the large mirror, Jiyong using it to inspect his teeth.

“Please, do not slit your throat with that thing,” Seunghyun mutters, applying night crème to the skin around his eyes. “I already ruined one dress shirt tonight. I’d rather not have to mop up your blood with my pajamas, thank you.”

Jiyong grins up at him, drawing tight, tiny circles in the air with the blade. Seunghyun feels it graze his sleeve, but he doesn’t flinch.

“You should really consider getting your teeth worked on,” the younger man quips, shutting the razor and tossing it carelessly onto the marble countertop when he realizes Seunghyun’s called his bluff. “Dr Lee did wonders with mine.”

“Yes, you’ve told me,” Seunghyun sighs. “And shown me. There’s nothing wrong with my teeth.”

“Sure there is.”

Seunghyun watches their reflections. Jiyong raises one of his hands to hook his thumb on Seunghyun’s bottom lip. And he gives in to the slight tugging and turns, if only to ensure Jiyong doesn’t get impatient and dig his nail into his gums. Jiyong’s fingers cradle the underside of his jaw as he maps the curve of Seunghyun’s lip with the pad of his thumb.

Seunghyun flicks the tip of his tongue against the digit. Jiyong’s smile grows impossibly wider, displaying his now-perfectly straight teeth.

“See? There’s still some lamb stuck in there.”

The spell broken, Seunghyun snorts and faces the mirror once more.

“They think it’s charming.”

‘They’ being ‘the women we target carefully based not on their inebriation but their ease of being enchanted.’ But that’s a given.

“What is?” Jiyong asks, pinning his hair up so as to apply his mud mask—he stopped using headbands when Seunghyun said they cause premature balding.

“Crooked teeth,” the older man chuckles. “Says I don’t care about my image.”

“You wore a four-million-won suit tonight,” Jiyong says, measuring out the facial mud in his palm. “I think you care a lot about your image. As of course you should anyway. Baby, it’s all about presentation. My beautiful smile is always the last thing they see.”


	3. 365 Keepin' Goin' and Goin' and On

Monday, 31 December 2007  
 ~~No.012 and No.013~~

“Are the clubs even open tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Seunghyun laughs, opening the passenger door for Jiyong.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” the younger man says, peering down at the leather seat of the Porsche without really seeing it. “Won’t everyone be busy celebrating? Waiting for midnight and all that.”

“Well, yeah,” is the brisk reply. “They’ll be celebrating in the clubs. Without us if you don’t get your scrawny ass in the car now.”

Jiyong just pouts before obeying and nearly having his Gucci scarf caught in the door when Seunghyun slams it shut. He glares at the older man making his way around the front of the car, and he can tell by the jerking of Seunghyun’s shoulders that he’s laughing. And still laughing when he gets in himself, the sound of it rumbling in the car enough to compete with the roar of the V8 Jiyong knows it’s capable of.

“Fuck you, I bought this a week ago,” he mutters.

“Yeah, as a Christmas gift to yourself,” Seunghyun scoffs, turning the key in the ignition.

And it’s like the Carrera joins in on the conversation and celebration, the multi-colored lights of the dashboard and console dimly illuminating the interior. To mark the festivities of the holiday season, tonight is their second hit of the month—the second in two weeks, Christmas having been a merry affair, what with the tree trimming, turkey carving, jewelry presenting, and toxic eggnog drinking.

Well, that last bit was done by only Numbers Ten and Eleven.

The drive deeper into the city is silent between the two. And, as it turns out, Seunghyun was perfectly correct, the club kimchi-packed with party-goers already past intoxicated with twenty minutes left to go before the watch-hands rendezvous for their midnight ménage à trois. Jiyong likes it this way. For Christmas they’d invited themselves to an upscale (and exclusive) hotel gala, more Seunghyun’s style.

Jiyong watches Seunghyun watch the valet veer off with the Porsche. But for once the older man seems unbothered by the thought of someone else driving it. He slips an arm around Jiyong’s waist, guiding him to the entrance.

“Wait here,” he murmurs, breath tickling Jiyong’s ear. “Drinks.”

So Jiyong obeys, analyzing the mass of drunk and dancing bodies from his hideaway in a booth. Seunghyun returns with two tumblers—Macallan-12 on the rocks, Jiyong already knows—in time for the countdown to the new year.

— _seven!_ —

“We’re not making picks tonight,” Seunghyun chuckles warmly— _six!_ —mouth pressed to Jiyong’s ear again as he presses one of the drinks into Jiyong’s hands.

— _five!_ — _four!_ —

“What? Why not?” Jiyong shouts absently— _three!_ —and takes the offered scotch nonetheless.

— _two!_ —

Seunghyun touches their glasses together with a “Cheers” only Jiyong catches— _one!_ —then, cupping his jaw, gently turns Jiyong’s face.

_Happy New Year!_

Jiyong sees fireworks.


	4. Heartbreakers

Friday, 15 February 2008  
Nos.015 – 018

Seunghyun spits crudely into the bathroom sink before helping himself to more mouthwash, swishing it furiously and audibly.

“That’s disgusting, you know that?”

Cheeks puffed out and working the minty antiseptic, he turns to find Jiyong zombie-walking into the bathroom, his hair matted and eyes puffy in his newly-woken state. Seunghyun spits once more then turns on the faucet to wash it all down. He exhales a large breath in the smaller man’s face, earning him a threateningly wielded toothbrush. He just laughs.

“I woke up with a tongue like a fucking rug soaked with dog piss. _That’s_ disgusting.”

Jiyong scrunches up his nose and grumbles non-words at Seunghyun’s imagery, lazily guiding his toothbrush around his mouth.

Opting for a change in their pool of pickings, they’d spent all of last night—Valentine’s Day night—and well into the morning at a noraebang frequented by university girls. It’s been a while since they’d been forced to settle for beer as the only alcoholic beverage. Seunghyun _hates_ beer. Almost as much as he hates immature hags and Valentine’s Day. So last night’s combination was far from ideal for the older man.

Still, it meant Jiyong singing which was compensation enough. Though they’d been outnumbered three-to-one by giggling wenches, Jiyong had focused all his attention on Seunghyun, choosing slow and seductive ballads only to sing them in a way that would require a 19+ rating. Seunghyun still can’t decide which was raunchier: Jiyong’s moaned adlibs or Jiyong’s rhythmic hip thrusts.

And the girls had eaten it all up—Jiyong crawling and writhing on the sticky floor, Jiyong gyrating while straddling one of Seunghyun’s thighs, Jiyong throwing them comehither glances over his shoulder.

They weren’t the sort of invitations the girls should’ve been so giddy about. Not that they could’ve known any better. Drunk and single and lonely _on Valentine’s Day good God_ , they’d eagerly ushered in the destructive duo when they knocked and let themselves in, bowing and grinning sheepishly in apology because ‘there are no more rooms but we really, really, _really_ want to sing, please?’ They didn’t have to ask—that is, lie, for there’d been a surplus of rooms—twice.

Jiyong spits then rinses in time for Seunghyun to tap him on the shoulder.

“Hm?”

Seunghyun hates Valentine’s Day, but who doesn’t like receiving candy, right? So he extracts an individually-wrapped piece of Belgian chocolate from the pocket of his silk robe and holds it under the other man’s nose. Jiyong’s pleasantly surprised smirk lasts a few brief moments before he frowns.

“Just one?”

Seunghyun shrugs, placing it on the vanity anyway.

“I don’t want you helping me clean out the freezer on a full stomach.”


	5. I'm Sorry (So Sorry) I Gave You Scars

Tuesday, 20 May 2008  
No.023 and No.024

“You’re rubbing too—damned—hard,” Jiyong whines.

Seunghyun looks up from the task at hand, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and says, “Quit being a little bitch. It’s supposed to hurt before it gets better.”

They’d gone rollerblading earlier that day. Seunghyun had resisted up until Jiyong got watery-eyed and wobbly-lipped. (‘There’s a first time for everything,’ he’d half-sobbed.) And indeed, there is. It was the first time the younger man wore a pair of what he was now calling ‘death mobiles.’ And it was the first time they’d perused Seoul's easy women in broad daylight. So now—bandages on his knees and elbows, menthol patches on his calves and thighs, and sprawled on their shagreen settee—Jiyong is getting his feet massaged by Seunghyun. And none too gently.

“You realize, of course, that you have no one but yourself to blame,” Seunghyun chides, drawing a yelp from the younger man when he digs his thumb particularly hard into Jiyong’s heel.

“Fuck! Hyung—!”

“All right, all right,” he mutters, moving onto Jiyong’s swollen toes.

But no matter how gingerly Seunghyun handles his feet, Jiyong continues to complain. Finding the marks had been quick work as usual, but in the short hour of actually skating in the park, Jiyong had fallen so many times (most of them for no reason) his tank top had torn beyond stylishly distressed, dirt had taken permanent residence in his shorts, one of his earrings had mysteriously disappeared into the grass, and the face of his watch had cracked.

The women, of course, had found the entire thing endearing, even insisting they pay for their post-workout yogurt.

Seunghyun just nods along to Jiyong’s laundry list of gripes, all the while wondering if he ought to remind the younger man that most people would find the women with plastic bags still tied around their heads a bit more pitiful. But he doesn’t.

“My fucking favorite motherfucking Mont Blanc design, _fucking ruined_ —”

Jiyong (fucking) finally shuts (the fuck) up when Seunghyun cups the back of his knee, urging it to bend so as to lift Jiyong’s foot from his lap.

“What are you doing?”

Seunghyun shakes his head, pausing only to smirk at him, before brushing his lips against Jiyong’s big toe. And Jiyong lets him, lets him continue when Seunghyun draws it into his mouth, slowly swirling his tongue around it. Jiyong’s eyes flutter closed but all he wants to do is watch.

Seunghyun stops when Jiyong starts moaning.

“Wh-what was that for?”

Seunghyun pinches the spit-slick toe and waits for Jiyong’s stream of death threats against him and his unborn children to end before answering.

“Kissing baby’s boo-boo all better.”


	6. Look Baby, I Only Wanna Greet the Morning with You

Tuesday, 19 August 2008  
 ~~Nos.032 - 036~~

Seunghyun and Jiyong have never been the sunniest morning people. Whether it’s a prerequisite for or the result of their nighttime escapades, neither of them knows. But they’ve been waking no earlier than noon for as long as they can remember.

“Hyung.”

The silk sheets rustle a bit around their legs when Jiyong kicks and wriggles his way up Seunghyun’s body, cool air of the air conditioned room wafting in through the momentary gap to tickle their toes and ankles. Seunghyun shivers in his half-sleep.

“Seung-honey.”

“Go back to sleep,” he groans.

Nevertheless, he slides one of his legs between Jiyong’s then searches blindly for Jiyong’s knee, hiking the smaller man’s thigh higher on his hip. He expects these small actions to be request enough for Jiyong to obey, or at least keep still and quiet for another five hours or so.

“But I want to say something.”

Seunghyun can only wish he could blame his testiness on jetlag and a hangover. They’d flown first-class back from Tokyo yesterday, and their first stop had been the hotel penthouse Seunghyun had reserved a month ago. Even if the small party hadn’t been for the specific occasion, the ten women would’ve been dropping their panties for them, the amount of money Seunghyun threw away for it.

“Then?”

But Jiyong chooses that moment to shut up. And Seunghyun isn’t complaining.

Champagne had flowed like the Han River. Jewelry and ecstasy had filled the goodie bags. But they’d gotten as far as leading their targets into the master suite before Jiyong suddenly changed his mind and demanded they go home. (‘Sorry ladies,’ he’d said, his smile saccharine but his eyes dangerous, ‘but I think I’d rather have a private party tonight.’)

So they’d caught a cab back to their condo, Seunghyun half-mourning his wasted efforts. Jiyong had tripped on their luggage, brought back ahead of them but left unceremoniously in the entrance (he’d see to their doorman later this week). After cussing up a storm, he’d hopped onto a chuckling Seunghyun’s back. (‘I’m sleepy,’ he’d mumbled against Seunghyun’s nape. ‘Let me borrow your bed.’)

Seunghyun cracks open one of his eyes and finds Jiyong staring at him cross-eyed, what with their faces being only inches apart.

“Well?”

“Thank you for the birthday party,” is the murmured reply. “I really am lucky, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. And old. And with morning breath.”

Seunghyun closes his eye once more, but he can picture the younger man’s scowl and can’t help but smile. He could get used to mornings like this.


	7. Touch the Sky (You Live Life Once)

Thursday, 6 November 2008  
Nos.036 – 038

Their plans rarely go wrong—mostly because they rarely have concrete plans to begin with. But two nights ago, their non-plans had spiraled in all the wrong directions. Because Jiyong had fucked up.

He’d fucked up Seunghyun’s birthday.

“I’m surprised it took so long for you to almost kill me.”

Jiyong almost jumps at the older man’s thin and weary voice, almost bursts into tears.

“I hope you got the right vein,” Seunghyun adds with a weak chuckle, looking pointedly at the needle in his forearm.

“Shut up, will you?”

Jiyong doesn’t want to look at or think about needles. Not since he pumped empty syringes into three successive jugulars those nights ago. Not since he had to listen to three separate death rattles.

Though the older man had merely wanted to stay home and drink together, Jiyong had managed to drag him to one of the newer nightclubs, swearing it would be fun especially since he’d gotten them a private room. It didn’t take long for Jiyong to wrangle in a few girls. It didn’t take long for one of them to claim to have scored a prime cut of snow. It also didn’t take long for all five of them to reach the condo and discover that Seunghyun’s birthday line was not, in fact, ‘prime.’ Weepy and panicked, the bitches had to be taken to the spare bedroom and sedated before Jiyong dealt with them.

He wonders why he’d been scared shitless sticking Seunghyun’s arm, but not the women’s necks.

Seunghyun seems to know what he’s thinking about when he says, “Sorry you had to take care of them by yourself.”

“I said shut the fuck up,” Jiyong growls, picking restlessly at the invisible lint on the silk sheet beside the older man’s arm, his eyes inexplicably darting to the needle.

“Nice getup, by the way,” Seunghyun continues, his laugh a bit stronger now.

“Shut. _Up_.”

But, for want of something to distract himself, Jiyong looks absently at the IV bag dangling from the hat stand he’d relocated to Seunghyun’s bedside. He follows the tube with his eyes. But before his gaze reaches Seunghyun’s arm the way he doesn’t want it to, he’s caught by the older man’s own stare. Some thirty hours later and his pupils are still frighteningly dilated. But the familiar crinkles are there at the corners of his eyes.

Jiyong can’t look away. Because the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve is there in Seunghyun’s face.

“How can you be grinning like a fucking idiot at a time like this?”

“Guess I’m still high.”

Jiyong almost jumps when Seunghyun’s unnaturally hot fingers wrap around his own. But this time, he does burst into tears. Because, at least for now, he decides to forgive himself.


	8. Come Be My Lady (Maybe I'm Crazy)

Wednesday, 24 December 2008  
No.040 and No.041

Christmas galas are a tradition. According to Seunghyun.

“This is the—fucking—dumbest—idea—ever.”

Seunghyun just tightens his arm around Jiyong’s waist as he leads them around the floor, occasionally nodding and smiling at their fellow attendees.

“You’re scaring everyone with your face,” the older man mutters, still smiling. “Pull your weight and look pretty, _Jieun-ah_.”

Jiyong mutters a few choice obscenities, stopping for a moment to stand on one foot and flex the ankle of the other. When he stands properly once more, he grudgingly admits (to himself) that he rather likes his temporary height. But the profit of wearing heels is chump change compared to the price of wearing a gown.

“I’m _gorgeous_ ,” he grumbles, tugging Seunghyun in the direction of the buffet line, though intent on alcohol not food. “Hyung, I’m so damned stunning, no pussy in her right mind would try touching you.”

Seunghyun turns his face (he doesn’t have to lean over now Jiyong’s four inches taller) and presses his lips to the corner of Jiyong’s glossy mouth. The skin on Jiyong’s completely exposed back blossoms with goosebumps when Seunghyun murmurs imperiously,

“Quit grunting like you have a Y-chromosome, and quit calling me ‘hyung,’ if you want this to work.”

The problem is that Jiyong doesn’t know if he wants things to work out. He knows they _can_ because Seunghyun had been strict and discriminatory when he picked out the perfect three-piece suit a few days ago: white with pinstripes silver-grey of the full moon so pale they can only be seen by sharing Seunghyun’s oxygen. Jiyong had been impressed for a glorious minute before Seunghyun corrected him that ‘no, I’m not buying you a suit’ because ‘yes, I’m buying you a fucking dress.’

Jiyong hopes he gets drunk enough to forget the torturous hour he’d spent trying on dress after fucking dress for Seunghyun’s unapologetic pleasure: ‘Turn around, I need to see how it drapes down your nonexistent ass;’ ‘You’d probably have to go commando with that one;’ ‘This one’s gonna need too much toilet paper to fill out your tits.’

So here he is, fake lashes weighing down his eyelids, black wig in a knot behind his right ear, chicken filets strapped to his chest, fairy vomit dusted all over his body. But still sober.

He faces Seunghyun to take the proffered glass of wine, ready to remind him that he does have a fucking Y-chromosome and a cock to prove it. But then he sees the way the light from the chandelier magically warms up the skin of Seunghyun’s chest, the older man having strategically forgone a tie and leaving the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone. But more importantly, the light dances in Seunghyun’s over-bright, delighted eyes in a way that makes Jiyong forget—what was he going to say?

“Fine,” he finally mumbles. “But, darling, if I get bloody, you’re paying the dry cleaning bill.”


	9. Classic, Fantastic, Bombastic, Drastic

Friday, 30 January 2009  
No.044

A storm rages in Seoul. But it’s contained in a single condo, on a single balcony, between two men. It’s perhaps all the more fierce this way. Natural disasters can’t be controlled by human hands. And what’s death but a small, singular, and (usually) inconsequential natural disaster?

“How long do you think it’ll take to die down?”

Cigar smoke unfurls from Seunghyun’s mouth in silent answer, acrid and peaty. Cuban. Jiyong toes the small stack of newspapers and magazines on the patio floor, scattering them between their lounge chairs like dominoes. He casts the older man a sidelong glance when he hears the chink of crystal on crystal, Seunghyun setting down his evening two fingers of scotch.

Their last mark, Number Forty-Four from a few days ago, had been an up-and-coming runway model. But unknown to either of them. Though the signs were there—the greed and princess complex of a self-made diva (she’d demanded to have both of them to herself), the rancid breath and serrated ribs of a bulimic. She’ll never know that she’s more famous now her face and life story (a pitiable short one; she’d only been nineteen) are on the cover of every popular print, more so on the net. Kidnapped? Raped? Sold into sex slavery? Murdered? The media gets some facts correct.

“She was a closet heroin addict,” Seunghyun finally says, voice lower, harsher than usual. “They’ll give up in a month, figuring she got in too deep then laid down somewhere to die. I’ve heard dogs do that.”

Also not too far from the truth. She’d definitely been a bitch. But she hadn’t lain down by her own power, and surely not in a place of her own choosing.

“They’ve already combed through her night spots,” he continues, more smoke flooding through his lips like the omen of an impending typhoon. “Not much left for the cops to do.”

Jiyong just sighs, curling and uncurling his toes. He helps himself to Seunghyun’s scotch, the amber liquid scorching his throat. It’s comforting, invigorating in its own way.

“That’s good.”

And this time, he feels Seunghyun staring at him. When he meets the other man’s eyes, he flashes a quick smirk.

“I was afraid we’d never be able to go to that club again.”

Seunghyun snorts before reclaiming the tumbler.

“Two-faced brat.”

Jiyong grins at the cloudless midnight sky.


	10. Oh! Don't Look at Me like That

Sunday, 26 April 09  
No.052 and No.053

“Yongie, there’s a shit ton of mirrors in the suite.”

“Yeah. So?”

Seunghyun closes the book he’d been reading while waiting for the younger man to finish getting ready. Despite being considerably smaller than Seunghyun, Jiyong takes far more time. It took most of their first year of playing dress-up for Seunghyun to become immune to half-hour waits. But there’s no helping the occasional desire to stab himself in the eye when Jiyong finally presents himself with a self-indulgent flourish.

“ _So_ ,” he grits through his teeth (shit, he hopes he isn’t getting a migraine), “you should be well aware that you look like a fucking beaver tripping on acid right now.”

Jiyong frowns, then peers down his body before mumbling, “What’s wrong with my jacket?”

Yes, this is definitely a migraine. So much for their ski vacation.

“Not your jacket,” Seunghyun groans.

He stalks exasperatedly toward the other man. Up close, Jiyong looks even more ridiculous. And though he’s a little wary of touching it (it looks radioactive), he tugs on the ear flaps on either side of Jiyong’s fur hat. Jiyong’s _fluorescent teal and neon fuchsia_ fur hat.

“ _This_. This—this _thing_.”

But Jiyong’s face just splits into an obnoxiously huge smile.

“Cute, right?” he positively gushes. “I think it’s snow hare—”

“Beaver on acid—”

“— _snow hare_ and it’s one of only a dozen on the fucking planet, okay? You can’t imagine how much it cost or how hard it was to get one.”

Seunghyun, unwittingly preoccupied with running his fingers through the thick, silken fur, muses aloud, “I can’t imagine there being others in the fucking universe. This should be an extinct species.”

Jiyong swats away the older man’s busy hand.

“I’m wearing it whether you like it or not. Now I want to ski, damn it.”

And, as it turns out, Jiyong’s beav—snow hare hat attracted so many women on the slopes, they had difficulty making their final choices that night.

“So? Like it now?” Jiyong asks between mouthfuls of chocolate cake.

“All right, all right,” Seunghyun concedes, keeping his eyes lowered—in part to focus on the massaging of Jiyong’s inevitably sore feet, in part to avoid looking at Jiyong still determinedly wearing the fucking thing.

Jiyong prods Seunghyun’s hip with the big toe of his free foot, saying, “Not good enough.”

Two migraines in a single day. Seunghyun wonders once more if the hat is radioactive, and if his brain’s been contaminated. Surely, Jiyong’s must be by now.

“Yes, Jiyong, I like the damned hat.”

And when he finally looks up at the younger man sitting across from him, hat in question pulled low over his eyes and unashamedly picking cake from his two front teeth, it takes far more energy than he expects to keep thoughts of ‘beaver on acid’ to himself.

“What are you smirking at?”


	11. Using Our Bodies

Wednesday, 8 July 09  
Nos.060 – 062

“You better get the right vein.”

It’s impossible to miss the quaver in Jiyong’s voice, and Seunghyun would be sympathetic if it hadn’t been the umpteenth time the younger man suddenly grabbed his wrist to stop him inserting the needle. It’s already been an hour since they excitedly tore open the package bearing a new brand of sedatives, and an hour since Jiyong lost the game of rock-paper-scissors to determine who would play guinea pig. It’s already been forty minutes since Seunghyun overruled Jiyong’s complaints of ‘They’re just gonna die anyway, I don’t see why we can’t just test it on _them_ ’ with the undeniable logic that Seunghyun had paid for the vials—and smashed Jiyong’s scissors with his fist-rock fair and square.

“I’m going to stab you in the clone factory if you don’t quit doing that.”

“Okay, okay, I’m ready,” the younger man huffs, more to himself, and Seunghyun takes advantage of Jiyong’s eyes rolling up into his head (probably in prayer) to finally stick him in the arm.

“Motherfuck! Couldn’t give a man some w-warning, could—could y-you… holy s-sh-it…”

‘Holy shit’ is right. Seunghyun watches with mild fascination as Jiyong’s entire body, tense and anxious just seconds ago, goes completely limp. But his eyes continue to rove about in his immobile head before fixing on Seunghyun’s face. He gives Jiyong’s side an experimental pinch, and a small cough escapes from the other man. He obviously got the right vein, and the drug obviously works—muscular paralysis without affecting sensation.

Without affecting…

Seunghyun tries to school his expression but fails miserably, proof being Jiyong’s half-crazed staring and grunting.

This is for purely experimental purposes, Seunghyun tells himself. It won’t take long anyway, the drug wearing off as quickly as it kicks in. So, no longer bothering to contain his smirk, he lays a hand just above Jiyong’s knee and gives it the briefest, gentlest of squeezes. The grunting falters.

“You like that, Ji?”

Jiyong can’t answer (not really anyway, save for grunting some more, now louder and wilder), so Seunghyun moves his hand an inch or so higher, dragging his thumb along Jiyong’s denim-clad inner thigh. And that is definitely a moan, not a grunt.

Seunghyun can’t help but laugh, can’t help but slide his hand further north without pausing. He notes the younger man’s ragged breathing and blown pupils. The back of his knuckles brush threateningly close to Jiyong’s groin, but he just keeps his hand moving—pinky dipping in Jiyong’s navel, nails scraping Jiyong’s ribs, fingers ghosting along Jiyong’s collarbone. When he finally reaches Jiyong’s face, he rests his fingertips on Jiyong’s eyelids and closes them.

“Yep. It works.”

Even with both of their bedroom doors closed, Seunghyun can hear Jiyong wordlessly screaming from across the hall. And he can’t help but laugh.


	12. Only with Your Trust

Saturday, 12 September 09  
Nos.066 – ~~069~~ 068

Their plans rarely go wrong. And last night proved ‘two wrongs don’t make a right,’ because they’d both fucked up.

“Figures.”

Jiyong can barely see Seunghyun through the steam in the sauna when he asks, “What does?”

With his vision impaired, Jiyong is hyperaware of the sound of Seunghyun’s slow, steady breaths. But he’s known Seunghyun long enough to not be fooled—Seunghyun’s no doubt livid just two meters away from him. And this wouldn’t be the first time he’s terrified of what Seunghyun might say, more so do. His fear only escalates when his question hovers in the fogged space between them unanswered.

“Hyung?”

“How—why I got fooled,” Seunghyun finally says, the frostiness of his voice ill-suited for the sauna.

“What do you—?”

As scared as he is, Jiyong is nevertheless curious as to what Seunghyun means. They’d both been fooled, after all, but Jiyong is still clueless as to how and why he fell for it himself. But the other man’s confession has Jiyong so deep in thought, he nearly jumps when Seunghyun materializes through the steam to sit beside him.

“Jiyong,” he starts, this time his voice more careful, “women don’t _do_ anything for me.”

It definitely isn’t the answer he expects.

“Well, yeah, I know that. What, you think they do anything for me?”

The older man lets out a half-exasperated, half-fond chuckle. But it’s an improvement, and Jiyong isn’t complaining. More so when Seunghyun suddenly starts stroking his knee, the feeling welcomed and familiar. These little things—easy touches and see-through laughs—are second nature between them.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Seunghyun continues, his fingers still tracing organic, nonsensical patterns one on top of the other on Jiyong’s skin. “Why else would I have gone so far with her—him?”

His words are so strange in that combination. But it’s true.

Early this morning, while doing their tried-and-tested shred-and-dump, they’d discovered that only three out of the four women had been _female_. Seunghyun’s reaction had been the same as his attitude just a few minutes ago—mental rage simmering beneath physical control. Jiyong’s though had been the reverse. He’d broken their third rule: contact with the bodies must be kept to a minimum, to what’s necessary. Glancing down into his toweled lap, he finds his knuckles still scraped and swollen. Regretfully, it had only been half as satisfying as it should’ve been.

And it’s like Seunghyun knows what he’s thinking about, scooping up one of Jiyong’s hands and raising it to his face. Seunghyun’s lips are strangely cool against the inside of his wrist.

“I’m never touching another man again,” Seunghyun murmurs, his breath just as cold, and Jiyong shivers despite their hot, humid environment. “Do you believe me, Jiyong?”

“I kissed him too,” he manages to rasp. “Dunno what the big deal is.”

Seunghyun’s fingers tighten marginally, but Jiyong feels it.

“Do you believe me?”

Jiyong’s known Seunghyun long enough, there’s no doubting the older man’s sincerity.

“I do.”


	13. We Like It Fresh and Cool Cool Cool

Tuesday, 17 November 09  
Nos.069 – 071

It’s been years since they smoked marijuana. Coke and ecstasy far better suit their nighttime undertakings. But their hits, American university girls, had adamantly turned down their surplus of hard candy. Jiyong hates the marijuana mind fug. But there they are, lying on the polar bear rug in the living room, simply staring at the ceiling, simply too stoned to start their clean up. It’s Jiyong’s fault, insisting they burn the rest immediately after waking up.

And that’s when Jiyong’s stomach growls. Angrily.

Seunghyun’s laugh sounds like it’s in slow-motion.

“Is baby hungry? Does baby need TOP-papa to feed him?”

Jiyong groans, willing himself upright and to his feet. But before he can take two steps, Seunghyun grabs his ankle. Looking down at it, Jiyong wonders when his leg grew two miles long. Oh right, it hasn’t. That’s the weed non-thinking. Good thing too. Imagine the cost of pants tailored for just one two-mile long leg.

“What?”

It’s been years since Jiyong’s seen Seunghyun’s stupid, adorable eye-smile.

“Bring something back for Daddy.”

“Fuck you.”

Still, Jiyong perks up when he opens the fridge, thanking every deity that Seunghyun has an unhealthy relationship with food. But steak is out of the question. So two minutes that feel like two hours later, Jiyong floats back into the living room, clutching fruit, baked goods, and a tub of ice cream to his chest.

“Is that my pineapple?”

“ ‘s it?”

“Shit. I don’t even know.”

Jiyong shrugs before sitting heavily on the floor, laying out his brunch on the rug. Seunghyun finally kicks and claws his way into a seated position across from him. And Jiyong would smack the older man’s hand away from his croissant, but the flaky delight is half-devoured before he can manage a ‘Fuck you, fuck-face.’ And the shameless, orgasmic noise Seunghyun makes just rubs salt into the wound.

Fine. He’ll settle for ice cream. Except, pulling off the lid reveals it’s frozen yogurt (so that’s how Seunghyun keeps the weight off). And Jiyong forgot a spoon.

“Fuck me sideways.”

“Plug your mouth hole,” Seunghyun huffs, snatching the carton away. “Just do it like this.”

Jiyong gapes when Seunghyun shoves his face into the frozen concoction and makes the filthiest slurping noises outside of porn. And when he resurfaces, it’s with his tongue dragging across his bottom lip, one corner of his mouth to the other.

“Cheeks.”

“Hm?”

Jiyong blames the marijuana and munchies when he crawls toward Seunghyun, sending the pineapple and biscuits (and tangerines and cookies and chocolate wafers and kiwis) every which way. And when he clambers onto the other man’s lap, he’s only a little surprised that Seunghyun doesn’t shove him away.

Panting in anticipation, Jiyong leans forward. But when his mouth meets Seunghyun’s cheek, it’s not from poor aim. And somehow they’re both moaning, Jiyong lapping at the frozen yogurt melted and dripping down Seunghyun’s face, Seunghyun wrapping his arms around Jiyong’s waist and drawing him closer.

And even when the yogurt’s gone, he moves onto the other cheek.

And even when the yogurt’s gone, he moves onto Seunghyun’s mouth.

There must be some still there.

There isn’t. But that’s okay, too.


	14. Burn Bright (So I Can Gaze at You)

Saturday, 2 January 10  
No.074 and No.075

They’re still embarrassingly shit-faced when they topple onto Jiyong’s bed. They’d only just wrapped up their partying, going from New Year’s Eve and straight through New Year’s night. Now, it’s dawn, the morning after New Year’s Day, and Jiyong wants to sleep until Independence Day.

“Get off—what are you—damn it—heavy—smells—”

It’s unfair of Jiyong: they both stink of smoke and spilled alcohol and strangers’ sweat. But it doesn’t stop Seunghyun from pressing his face into Jiyong’s throat.

“Let me sleep, Yongie.”

“Then—shit— _go_ —”

In spite of his squirming and swearing, it’s not that Jiyong doesn’t want to share his bed. He just doesn’t want to share it right now. Because in spite of his repeated groans of ‘I wanna sleep, Yongie, let me sleep,’ Seunghyun is not falling asleep. Instead, Seunghyun’s pressing open-mouthed kisses along Jiyong’s jaw, dragging his teeth along Jiyong’s collarbone, ghosting his hands along Jiyong’s sides.

Jiyong fists his hands in his sheets, resisting the urge to fist them in Seunghyun’s hair and relocate the other man’s mouth from his clothed shoulder to his own mouth. But maybe Seunghyun isn’t quite so uninhibited, because he suddenly raises himself onto his forearms to stare down at Jiyong.

“You don’t want this?”

Jiyong tells himself that ‘Of course I want this, you fucking idiot, now get on with it’ isn’t a real option. They’re both drunk and being stupid and, fuck, does Seunghyun _have_ to look at him like that, his eyes hooded and dark, his lips parted and moist? And even when Jiyong feels his own cock jump against Seunghyun’s hip, the older man waits patiently for a clear answer.

“Of course I do, you fucking idiot.”

And Seunghyun’s smile—sweet and smug—makes him impossibly harder.

But maybe Jiyong’s still a little drunk, because when the older man pops all the buttons from Jiyong’s shirt and slithers down Jiyong’s body, taking his jeans and underwear with him, Jiyong bolts upright and plants his palm against Seunghyun’s forehead before he can get within licking distance of Jiyong’s cock.

“Wait, you smoke.”

Seunghyun gets onto his knees and—is it possible to come from just being looked at? Because Seunghyun has obviously lost his patience, his expression now one of irritation and irrepressible need and, fuck all if it makes him even sexier.

“Yeah, so?” he mutters, wrangling Jiyong’s legs free from his pants as sign enough that they aren’t stopping.

“You’ll melt my dick off if you put it in your mouth.”

And that definitely halts Seunghyun’s movements. So Jiyong takes the opportunity to shove at Seunghyun’s shoulders. And maybe if he wasn’t drunk, Seunghyun wouldn’t have fallen so easily. Or maybe he’s just confused. Either way, Jiyong clambers onto the older man.

“What the fuck are you—?”

“I don’t smoke,” Jiyong says blithely, taking his turn at forceful undressing. “So logically, I should be the one sucking cock.”

And Seunghyun doesn’t argue.

And maybe if Jiyong wasn’t still drunk, he’d shut the fuck up and get on with it, but even as he nibbles and sucks every inch of Seunghyun’s inner thigh, he pauses every so often to provide explanation (and he can’t be that drunk if he can multitask, kneading the hard flesh of Seunghyun’s other thigh all the while.)

“It’s what—the bitch from—the other night said—about smoking—and sucking—a guy off—by the way—and—it looked like she—knew what—she was talking about—you know—before I snapped—her—”

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it, will you?” Seunghyun growls.

And under normal (that is, sober) circumstances, Jiyong would find the exchange of bodily fluids after two nights without showering a bit gross, but it’s Seunghyun and—it’s _Seunghyun_ —which is reason enough to not give two shits about it.

“Yes, darling,” he laughs.

And a heartbeat later, he sinks his teeth into Seunghyun’s hip and finally wraps his fingers around Seunghyun’s neglected erection. The older man’s hiss stretches into a belly-drawn groan when Jiyong slides his loose fist upward to palm the leaking head, making room to clamp his lips at the base of Seunghyun’s cock. And maybe this isn’t the best time for such things but, rubbing his cheek against Seunghyun’s groin, Jiyong makes a mental note to ask the older man how to keep stubble at bay for as long as he does (though, God forbid the answer is waxing).

Jiyong moves his mouth, all lips and tongue and teeth, along Seunghyun’s cock to meet his hand. He pauses to liberally lick his palm, noting the sharp yet deep sweetness of the older man’s precome, before sucking the swollen head between his lips. And maybe if he were sober, Jiyong would bother to slowly, mercilessly tease the other man within an inch of his life, but he isn’t—so he doesn’t. Just hollows his cheeks and sucks like he’s trying to get a golf ball through a straw. He’s moving with more urgency than finesse, but Jiyong nevertheless marvels at the weight and heat, the length and girth of Seunghyun’s prick. And because Seunghyun doesn’t seem to give two shits that spit and precome are dribbling onto his balls, Jiyong doesn’t give two shits that spit and precome are dribbling down his chin.

But he falters a bit when Seunghyun’s fingers thread themselves in his hair, yanking slightly.

“Look at me, Ji.”

So he does, angling his face and peering from under his lashes at the older man propped up on one elbow. And it’s like he’s somehow overcome the forces of gravity and being flung into outer space when their eyes meet, Seunghyun’s pupils blown so wide all he sees is black. But Seunghyun just smirks, releasing his hair to cradle his filthy jaw and sneak his thumb into the corner of Jiyong’s mouth to join his cock.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this.”

Seunghyun’s voice is like the scotch he loves so much—searing Jiyong’s senses at first, making the hair on his arms stand on end and his toes curl, before fading so smoothly it leaves him desperate for more. Jiyong can only moan. The older man’s hips jerk unconsciously in response. Jiyong can only smirk.

But neither of them has all day, something they seem to agree upon just staring at each other, so when Seunghyun buries his hand in Jiyong’s hair again to fuck the smaller man’s mouth relentlessly, Jiyong just lets him, cupping Seunghyun’s balls firmly with his spit-slick hand and tugging down on them in time with Seunghyun’s thrusts. And because it’s Seunghyun, Jiyong doesn’t even care when the older man belatedly grunts ‘Fuck, Ji, gonna come’ when he already is, thick and molten down Jiyong’s throat, holding Jiyong’s head in place so his sweaty forehead bumps against Seunghyun’s abdomen.

He pulls off of Seunghyun not long after, wet and audible, then smacks his lips like a seasoned wine connoisseur. Seunghyun gives a single shout of laughter, throwing one of his arms over his eyes, his legs still quaking against Jiyong’s.

“Like that, do you?”

“Tastes like Dom Pérignon Pink. Maybe you drink it too much.”

Seunghyun lifts his arm slightly to glare at him without any real heat before beckoning Jiyong closer.

“Now come here, your dick won’t melt off.”

And maybe Jiyong’s still a bit drunk, or maybe finally sobering up, because he believes him. So much for sleeping.


	15. Lost Dreams, Bright Futures

Sunday, 14 March 2010  
No.081 and No.082

“What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Seunghyun lets his magazine flutter closed in his lap and turns to Jiyong in the adjacent lounge chair. The younger man is so focused on filing his nails, Seunghyun would think he hadn’t broken their lengthy silence at all.

“Nostalgia doesn’t suit you, Yongie.”

Jiyong snorts in answer before sitting up, raising his arms, and arching his back in a feline stretch.

“I’m not being nostalgic.”

Seunghyun tosses the magazine onto the small patio table between their chairs and shifts his weight onto one side to better study the other man.

“Then why’d you ask that?”

Jiyong mirrors him, pointing and wiggling his toes, and Seunghyun notices the way the lines of his calves catch the light streaming onto their balcony through the glass wall behind them. Jiyong notices him noticing and flashes him a knowing grin.

“Because,” Jiyong finally answers, “I never thought I’d grow up needing to file my nails to make sure I don’t get someone else’s skin stuck in them.”

Seunghyun just rolls his eyes, then reclines fully on his back once more, saying, “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who said we should file our nails for that reason.”

They rarely share awkward silences. But this is one of those rare times.

“An actor.”

“Huh?”

Seunghyun turns his head as far as he can, finding Jiyong staring at him bemusedly, then repeats himself.

“When I was younger. I wanted to act.”

The smaller man’s face softens, brightens at his confession before he slinks off his lounge chair and crosses to Seunghyun’s. Welcomed without having to ask, Jiyong straddles Seunghyun’s hips. Welcomed without having to ask, Seunghyun glides his hands up Jiyong’s thighs, intent on the velvety skin of Jiyong’s lower back.

“You sort of get to do that now, though, don’t you think?” Jiyong muses aloud while sliding Seunghyun’s glasses to the top of his head before undoing the belt of Seunghyun’s robe. “We pretend to be nice, rich, straight guys, when really we’re—”

“Evil, rich, bent guys?” Seunghyun suggests with a small chuckle.

Jiyong leers down at him in answer, guiding the robe off the older man’s shoulders and Seunghyun complies by straightening up in his seat, in part to shrug off the cashmere, in part to claim Jiyong’s pretty, smirking mouth. And when Jiyong draws away, it’s in part to catch his breath, in part to lean back and grind down on Seunghyun’s growing erection.

“I wanted to sing,” he gasps, Seunghyun licking a hot, hot path up the pale, taut column of his throat, his head thrown back in wanton supplication. “And dance. Be famous. Some shit like that.”

“I know,” Seunghyun murmurs. “You told me all the time. I thought you were an attention-whore for it.”

Jiyong half-laughs, half-moans, his hands jumping to the back of Seunghyun’s head to hold the older man in place where he’s thoroughly biting and sucking the tender flesh under the jut of Jiyong’s jaw.

“As if being an actor is any better,” he pants, hips working in slow, measured circles. “Why didn’t you ever tell me, you asshole? So much for being childhood friends—”

Jiyong shuts up, in part because one of Seunghyun’s hands slips into his pajama bottoms to firmly grasp his cock, thumb tracing patterns on the underside, in part because Seunghyun’s other hand slips into his pajama bottoms to firmly grasp one of his ass cheeks.

“Fuck, hyung—”

“Bed. Now.”

Seunghyun doesn’t have to repeat himself.


	16. Playing To Lose

Friday, 9 July 2010  
 ~~No.093 and No.094~~

They don’t like competing with each other. They have a silent, mutual understanding that they’re natural, universal complements. Fire and ice. There can never be a real winner. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t competitive.

And there’s something more dangerous than boiling water when fire and ice clash.

Steam.

And it’s like they’re in a pressure cooker, Seunghyun’s seat scooted as far back as it can go, one of Jiyong’s legs wedged uncomfortably against the door and the other with a bit more room along the console (though his ankle keeps knocking against the gearshift). The Jaguar’s windows are fogged over, their chests are flushed and sweaty despite being already shirtless, their breaths are ragged and heavy and passing damply, directly from one mouth to the other.

For all their impatience, they haven’t bothered to leave the hotel garage. Or maybe that’s exactly why they have yet to leave.

The night had started innocently enough—go to one of the more high-end hotels, find their marks at the bar, go home and get it done, rinse and repeat. Then again, Seunghyun’s teasing had also started innocently enough—speaking only about Jiyong, _to_ Jiyong across the women separating them.

‘I call him “G-Dragon” because he sets fire to whomever—excuse me— _whatever_ comes in contact with his mouth,’ he’d said, hushed enough so only they could hear, loud enough so Jiyong couldn’t possibly miss it, mistake and all. ‘So don’t be fooled by his crocodile tears.’

Jiyong had shifted uneasily in his stool, hoping he’d been discreet pawing at his groin.

‘But you see TOP here,’ he’d chimed in, running the backs of his knuckles down his hit’s forearm when he knew Seunghyun was looking, ‘he only _seems_ shy and quiet, when really I call him “TOP” because he’ll do anything to get on anyone with a decent pair of—’

Seunghyun had stood then, his bar stool deafening as it scraped across the mahogany floor.

‘Sorry ladies,’ he’d said, watching Jiyong follow suit, though with far less noise and avoiding his eyes. ‘Just remembered. We have a secret party to attend tonight.’

Which is how they ended up in Seunghyun’s car, the older man for once not getting the door for Jiyong. Because he hadn’t meant for Jiyong to get into the passenger seat.

“Fuck, you smell like that cunt from earlier,” he growls, nevertheless burying one of his hands in Jiyong’s hair and forcing the younger man’s face heavenward to bare his neck for Seunghyun to mark and ravage.

Blindly tearing at the button and zip of Seunghyun’s perfectly creased slacks, Jiyong half-scoffs, half-stutters, “What, I thought you like Dior.”

Seunghyun mutters something that might be ‘Touché’ and might be ‘Hurry the fuck up.’ But when Jiyong finally frees his leaking cock from the confines of his pants, he jerks away as far as he can in their cramped quarters to stare down between their bodies.

“Why aren’t you wearing underwear?” he groans, nevertheless grasping the older man’s thick, lust-darkened prick with both hands.

There’s a brief pause in which Seunghyun’s head falls back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut, before he grunts, “It was your turn to do laundry, you brat.”

Jiyong mumbles something that might be ‘Sorry’ and might be ‘I should forget more often.’ And when Seunghyun mentally and physically shakes himself, he tugs at Jiyong’s fly as well. But there’s no getting his pants off any farther than his hips, and the only option seems to be tearing the seams down the crotch.

So he does. And finds the younger man in a similar underwear-less state. Maybe he _should_ slack on his chores more often.

“Fuck, I liked these,” Jiyong whines.

But his whine segues into a whimper when Seunghyun shoos his hands away in favor of lining up their cocks, fisting them in tandem, tight and slow. Jiyong’s hands jump automatically to the older man’s broad shoulders, his meticulously manicured nails finding little purchase in the hard muscle there, but he tries anyway so long as he can keep himself grounded.

“F-fuck, hyung, close—”

“So soon?” Seunghyun jibes without heat, before leaning forward to plunder Jiyong’s gaping, gasping mouth.

“Shut—up. Wanted you—since—”

“Your balls dropped? I know,” Seunghyun laughs throatily, deftly switching to pumping only Jiyong’s copiously weeping erection with one hand, using the other to pry one of Jiyong’s from its death grip and guide it to his own cock. “I like anyone with a decent pair, so don’t think this makes you special, Kwon.”

“Shut the fuck—up—”

But Seunghyun doesn’t care that his continued laughter and attacks are driving the younger man crazy in the best and worst ways, so long as Jiyong keeps moving his hand, keeps rocking his hips, keeps making those delicious, needy mewling noises.

But when Jiyong adds that wicked twist of his wrist whenever his fist brushes the crown of Seunghyun’s cock, Seunghyun knows it’s Jiyong’s own secret way of challenging him, of throwing the sexual gauntlet. And as much as he’s enjoying the quick, slick sliding of Jiyong’s fingers, Seunghyun hates losing.

“Open up, baby.”

His eyes may be closed, but Jiyong obeys, willing his teeth from his bottom lip to welcome Seunghyun’s fingers into his mouth. In the few short minutes that Jiyong works his tongue between and around the digits, moaning around them as the proxy for his prick, Seunghyun entertains the idea of simply giving in and letting Jiyong have the satisfaction of making him come despite doing so little—though really, it’s not ‘so little’ an act, Jiyong proving the earlier joke perfectly correct as he sets fire to Seunghyun’s nerves with every swirl of his tongue, every pass of his red-raw lips. And it’s not so little an effort, Seunghyun extracting his fingers from between those dragon jaws. But he manages.

“Come here, baby,” Seunghyun murmurs, releasing Jiyong’s cock and silently urging the younger man to do the same.

“Quit calling me that.”

Seunghyun just reclines the seat as far back as possible, laughing again, “Okay, baby.”

And Jiyong would argue a bit more, but like this—leaning forward so their chests are flush, so his arms are snaked around Seunghyun’s neck, so Seunghyun’s arms are wrapped around his waist—the only method of shutting up the other man seems to be kissing him.

So he does. And he finds it to be a win-win situation, moaning even louder when Seunghyun hooks his fingers into the space where their mouths are joined. It’s messy and chaotic like this—like friendly fire, collateral damage—Seunghyun’s fingers thrusting persistently between Jiyong’s lips, the cavalry to his tongue. But the need for reinforcements becomes all too clear when Seunghyun pulls them from the battlefield of their teeth and lips, when Seunghyun reaches around to sneak his hand into the back of Jiyong’s pants.

“Fuck, hyung— _here—?_ ”

“Guess you aren’t as slow as I thought,” Seunghyun huffs against Jiyong’s cheek, note of amusement still in his voice.

And before Jiyong can protest, those fingers—Seunghyun’s hot, spit-slick fingers—are circling, teasing his entrance. Before Jiyong can protest, Seunghyun touches a fingertip against the ring of muscle. Breath hisses through Jiyong’s teeth the same moment Seunghyun breaches his body.

“Gotta relax, Ji,” Seunghyun says, brushing apologetic kisses across Jiyong’s furrowed brow even as he continues to press steadily and methodically into the younger man, withdrawing each time before pushing in a bit further the next.

“How about—fuck—we switch and— _I_ do the ass-stabbing—huh?”

For all his impatience, hurting Jiyong is the last thing Seunghyun wants to do. For all his impatience, Seunghyun can’t believe how tight Jiyong is—this isn’t even the first time.

“But I love you like this.”

Seunghyun deftly wedges his free hand between their bodies to resume the stroking of Jiyong’s cock as a means of distracting the smaller man from the addition of the second finger. He can’t really tell if the move is appreciated or not, Jiyong digging his teeth into his shoulder and half-moaning, half-very-much-meaning a torrent of profanities. But it can’t be so bad if he can muster up the brainpower and attitude for sarcasm.

“This isn’t—really the time for—confessing your feelings— _sweetheart_.”

Seunghyun just curls his fingers in answer. And that is definitely a moan. It’s minimal, but Seunghyun recognizes the change in the way Jiyong’s clenching around him. But no matter how comfortable he is with two fingers, it’s hardly enough preparation. Seunghyun only wishes he had a third hand. And lube.

“Your fingers, Ji,” he says, using his shoulder to nudge him upright. “Come on, it’s your ass, not mine, and I don’t want to hear about it tomorrow.”

Jiyong doesn’t seem to understand. That is, until Seunghyun opens his mouth expectantly. And if he had that third hand, the first thing he would do is pinch Jiyong’s cheeks, the way they’ve gone even more pink at the thought of fingering himself for an audience.

“Pervert,” he breathes, nevertheless obeying, if only to capitalize on a chance to shut him up again.

There’s so much going on but all of it for Jiyong’s sake, that Seunghyun takes a moment to wonder at how any of it is doing him any good. That is, until Jiyong deems his fingers sufficiently laved by Seunghyun’s tongue and leans back to reach around himself. Seunghyun only wishes he had a second head, a second pair of eyes so as to watch Jiyong’s pale, thin finger slide in alongside his two.

Seunghyun lets Jiyong dictate the pace and depth, and together they fuck him open, three fingers quickly changing to four, until he’s a writhing, squirming, swearing mess.

“All talk, hyung? Not gonna fuck me after all? ‘Cause any more of this and—”

One second, Jiyong’s all taunting whispers. The next, Seunghyun slides his hand past Jiyong’s cock to cup his balls, to rub the smooth, burning sliver of skin behind them where he can feel the swell of their invading fingers, and Jiyong’s coming all over Seunghyun’s abdomen, cussing lost to a single sibilant ‘ _Seung_ —’

But the hot, heady pressure-cooker feeling hasn’t let up. Even when, not missing a beat, Jiyong extracts their fingers and clumsily barrel rolls into the passenger seat.

“Cheater.”

And smirking at him, Seunghyun gets his comeuppance when, with a smirk of his own, Jiyong reaches across the console, runs his fingertips across the older man’s filthy, coated belly then raises them in offering. And Seunghyun obliges, sucking on them ravenously. He hums contentedly around the digits before taking a hold of Jiyong’s wrist to draw them out of his mouth, before skimming his lips across the thin, delicate skin, feeling the wild pulse beneath it.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Replacing his lips with the points of his teeth, feeling the tendons jump at the change in sensation, he casts Jiyong a sidelong glance at the younger man’s awed voice. But Seunghyun would beg to differ when, having pulled his hand free, Jiyong shimmies out of his ruined trousers, unveiling his already half-erect cock, inch after glorious inch of his creamy, supple thighs. And when he crawls across the console once more, Seunghyun maps the sweat-glistened concave-convex path of his spine, visually dividing the planes and angles of his back into territories and empires for his taking.

And when Jiyong uses a thumb to smear the beaded precome on the head of his cock, uses slender but strong and sure fingers to guide it to his already arguably abused hole, Seunghyun wants to tell him that it’s okay, he can just use his mouth or even just his hands because it’s Jiyong and—it’s _Jiyong_ —which is reason enough to not care how he gets Seunghyun off. But he can’t, he loses his voice and his mind as Jiyong bears down on him, inch after torturous inch slowly drawn into that velvety heat so tight it’s like there hadn’t been four fingers in there just minutes ago.

Neither of them moves for some time, frozen in a stalemate, Seunghyun fully seated in Jiyong, Jiyong panting into Seunghyun’s ear.

“All right?”

Seunghyun’s voice is harsh from his inability to focus on anything other than the arrhythmic tensing around his cock. But his touch is light, brushing his thumb over the curve of Jiyong’s cheek before leaning forward to place his lips to the beauty mark there. The small shift has him pulling out fractionally, but Jiyong just rocks down on him, reclaiming whatever was lost. And by silent, mutual understanding, together they start moving, Seunghyun canting upward to meet the lifting and dropping of Jiyong’s hips.

There isn’t enough room in the coupe for anything more than slow, shallow thrusts, but it suits them just fine, their deliberate movements making up for their far from intimate surroundings. Jiyong peppers kisses to every feverish inch of Seunghyun’s face and neck. Seunghyun relishes in the subtle tensing of the muscles in Jiyong’s thighs and back.

“What were you saying earlier?”

Seunghyun’s already more than close, burrowing and grinding as deep into the small body above him as he can, he actually can’t remember what he’d said earlier that Jiyong’s bringing up now—how Jiyong can be asking questions through all his moaning, Seunghyun doesn’t know either.

“Didn’t—say anything—did I—?”

Jiyong draws their bodies apart to lean back against the steering wheel, bracing one arm on the dashboard and using the hand of the other to pump his own beautifully blushing cock. The change in angle gives Seunghyun more room to drive into that sinful, addictive pressure, gripping Jiyong’s waist, and timing his thrusts with the wet, obscene gliding sound of Jiyong’s fingers and the dry, stuttering swishes of the windshield wipers accidentally switched on by Jiyong’s elbow.

“You love me.”

In all the years he’s known Jiyong, all the times he’s kissed or touched or fucked Jiyong, he’s never heard the younger man’s voice so raw, smug—but somehow tender. And it has him shuddering violently as he comes, feeling himself fill the hot, clenching suction of Jiyong’s ass with a final grunted ‘Yes, Ji, fuck—’ And Jiyong milks him of everything, hand quickening for a dozen more tugs of his prick before he comes again, this time on his own thighs and fingers.

“You said you love me.”

This time, his voice is careful, contemplative. Seunghyun just groans pathetically, slipping reluctantly out of him.

“During sex, I’m pretty sure is what I said.”

Jiyong snorts, positioning himself so they’re chest-to-sweaty-chest once more, and rests his temple on Seunghyun’s collarbone.

“Love you, too.”

Seunghyun just hums noncommittally. Then:

“So you’re doing laundry tomorrow, right?”


End file.
